


I'm Not Lonely, I'm Just Alone

by GopherGal



Category: Halloween Movies - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2020-09-23 18:47:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20344933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GopherGal/pseuds/GopherGal
Summary: For a woman living on her own, the threat of a killer on the loose should be the most that Jean should have to worry about. Instead, the threat continues to loom over her as it becomes a fixture of her daily life, watching and following her every move. Behind evil black eyes, Jean notices something... human.





	1. Into This Night I Wander

**Author's Note:**

> Story title from Worry by Mother Mother  
****  
Some details:  
*This takes place just after the end of Halloween II, but we're ignoring 4-6, H20, and Resurrection  
*Some minor elements might be taken from the novelization, but they aren't that big

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Story title from Worry by Mother Mother  
Chapter title from Possession by Evans Blue  
****  
Some details:  
*This takes place just after the end of Halloween II, but we're ignoring 4-6, H20, and Resurrection  
*Some minor elements might be taken from the novelization, but they aren't that big

Jean pulled her car into the driveway of her house, remaining in the driver’s seat to hear the last of the news report playing on the radio.

“ _ Thirteen dead and two injured tonight in killing spree by an escaped Smith’s Grove Sanitarium patient, one Michael Audrey Myers. An eyewitness reports that he has been caught in an explosion at Haddonfield Memorial Hospital, however any trace of the murderer has yet to be found. Police urge the residents of Haddonfield and surrounding areas to remain cautious, _ ” the anchor relayed.

“This world’s really gone down the gutter,” Jean sighed, shaking her head. It seemed to her that there was some new tragedy on the news every day, but then again, maybe it’d always been like this, she thought. No matter, it wasn’t like she’d have to worry about this Myers guy out where she was. Well, technically she  _ did _ live in Haddonfield, but she was so far on the outskirts of town that the address was more for the post office than anyone else. The houses were spread apart, like suburbia was melting into rural land. 

Either way, there was no way that a guy could get from Haddonfield Memorial Hospital to her little house without being caught by the police, especially if he were burnt up. In that case, he’d be dead or really wish he were. Well, with that reassuring thought, she entered her home.

With the lights flicked on, she stretched. It had been a late shift at the truck-stop diner she called her workplace. A quick shower, a bite to eat, and she was off to bed. Tomorrow was her day off, which meant more work, but this time at home. She slipped into bed, shut her smoky-blue eyes, and fell to unconsciousness the moment her head hit the pillow. Unknown to her, a change to her daily routine stumbled his way toward her humble home. 

Jean woke to the morning sunlight that streamed through her window. Sitting up groggily, she checked the clock. Ten o’clock? Not bad at all. She still had time for a much needed cup of coffee with her breakfast and a listen at the news before she got to business with her housework.Maybe she’d even get to hear about if that killer from the night before got caught. With her meal eaten, coffee drank, and dishes put away, her day drew on. The week’s laundry was washed and hung up in the backyard to dry, house vacumed and dusted, porch swept, and finally lawn mowed. For only living here a few months, her late grandpa’s house cleaned up well. All she had left to do was patch of the small holes in the roof, but that was a job for another day.

Frankly, Jean didn’t really know what to do with the rest of the day. She’d finished what she needed to do an hour or so early. Well, lunch was in order, she guessed. It was a meal she tended to skip, not intentionally, of course, just because she forgot. Not today though, even if eating a sandwich was a slap in the face of her routine. She had some time to kill before she could bring in her laundry. Given the good weather, she decided on grabbing her sketchpad and pencils to go out and draw. With luck, some birds would sit still long enough that she could draw them before they flew south for the winter.

She walked out to the edge of the woods that stood close to her home, golden-brown hair fluttering in the breeze. Sitting down on a stump, she sketched a squirrel that had perched in some nearby branches above her. It was statue-still, almost like it was waiting to see the finished drawing. That was until it’s head snapped to the side, searching for danger. It scurried down the branch into a hole in the tree. Jean looked around, trying to find what has scared the squirrel. Then she realized how beyond lucky she was this evening. 

There stood, on the branches of an old oak tree, was an owl. It was breathtaking, with the glossiest eyes that stood out from it’s sleek brown feathers. It watched her intently, head tilting slightly to the side. Jean took her chance to draw the beautiful predator, sketching quickly before it might fly away to its nest. It was rare for her to see an owl around here, let alone during the day. When would she get another chance to draw such a beautiful bird?

After she finished, she put down her pencil, only to look up and see that the owl had vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Disappointing as it was, it didn’t matter, she finished the drawing and still had dried laundry to attend to. The sun hung low in the sky when she walked into her house carrying her basket of laundry, which she promptly folded and put away. While she cooked the radio played, and when she sat down to eat the news came on according to schedule. 

_ “It is likely that Michael Myers, the man that killed thirteen people last night, is still at large and highly dangerous,” _ the news person said.

“Geez,” Jean said around a bite of mashed potatoes, “ you’d think the boys in blue could catch one guy.” She spoke in a snarky tone, but couldn’t hide from the goosebumps on her skin and sense of paranoia creeping up her back.

“I can’t be so dumb as to get freaked out over this,” she muttered to herself, “He’s probably, I don’t know, lost in the woods or something. Didn’t the news mention that he was a patient at the sanitarium? He wouldn’t be able to survive out there alone, would he?” Her attempt at using logic to calm herself did nothing to relax the tension in her muscles, but maybe sleep would. 

The problem with that theory was that, since she wasn’t exhausted, sleep did not come easily, especially when paranoia gnawed at the back of Jean’s mind. After what felt like hours, she finally drifted off into a restless sleep, only to wake a few hours later, cold and clammy, to a loud thump downstairs. 

Eyes wide, Jean grabbed the mini baseball bat from under the mattress. Hands trembling and breathing unsteady, she slunk down the stairs, hugging the banister. When she reached the bottom, Jean’s grip on her bat tightened to a knuckle-whitening degree as she froze in place. There before her was the source of the thud from earlier: on her couch, half lying, was a man in a dark boiler suit, streaked with darker stains. Tears of fright pricked at her eyes as she walked around the man on her couch. He wore an expressionless white mask, also smeared with dark stains, some of which looked like dried blood. The more she stood where she was, the more she noticed about him, like how she could hear just how how labored his breathing was as his body shuddered.

Jean moved to the wall, flicking the light on. The man sprang into motion, jumping to his feet and turning to her, swaying dangerously as he did so. In his right hand he gripped a dirty kitchen knife like it was his only anchor to the world.

“Woah,” Jean found herself saying to the intruder, her empty hand held out between the two of them, “ I’m not going to hurt you unless you hurt me.” This did little to calm the unsteady man.

“How about you sit down so that you don’t collapse again?” 

No change.

“Look, I'll sit first, see?” She said, sitting in the armchair across from the couch. After a few moments of hesitation, the man mirrored her actions. Hoping he would continue to mirror her movements, Jean set her bat at her feet.

“Neither of us want hurt, right?” she said when the man tilted his head in confusion, to which he nodded weakly and set his knife on the coffee table. Close enough.

“Are you injured?”

He nodded.

“Then, will you let me help you?”

The man eyed her skeptically behind his mask, wondering what her true motives were.

“I wouldn’t want you to die here on my couch, and I was assuming that you wouldn’t want me to call 911, what with the breaking and entering.”

The way he stiffened at her words was all the answer she needed, so he nodded to her shakily. She moved with slow intent to sit beside him on the couch. 

“Where does it hurt?” she asked before taking note of his posture. He curled in on himself a little leaning toward his left and holding his left arm close to his body.

“Could you take off the top part of your suit for me? I need to get my first aid kit,” she stood and walked briskly up the stairs to retrieve her supplies. She was helping a stranger, a  _ masked _ man, who had broken into her house and threatened her with a knife. The absurdity of this situation wasn’t lost on her, but at least he wasn’t acting aggressively, so she decided to keep some hope in mind.

When she got back down the stairs, the man sat fully bare chested, allowing her to see the full extent of his injuries. His chest sported six bullet wounds and his left arm, as well as part of his side, suffered some nasty looking burns.

“Oh my god,” she gasped, “did you get the bullets dug out or-” she was cut off by him showing her the 6 bloody bullets he held loosely in his right hand, “Well, that’s one less thing we need to do now. You should know that this is going to hurt. I don’t have anything to prevent that, but I have some medicine that should help after.”

He didn’t nod, just stared forward at her. Taking a bowl of warm water and gentle soap, Jean set to work dabbing at the crusty bullet wounds. Somehow, they went no deeper than the muscle. That seemed impossible, but Jean wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. During the entire time she cleaned his wounds, even when the water turned red with blood, the man didn’t move. In fact, he hardly seemed to  _ breathe _ , but now that there was no dried blood in the way, Jean understood why he’d been swaying: the flesh around the wounds were pink, hot, and slightly puffy, which meant that infection had begun to set in.

The poor guy was probably delirious from pain and fever, but it was nothing she shouldn’t be able to treat. Clean it daily, keep it covered until it starts to heal, and put ointment on it, a simple process. She finished bandaging his chest wounds, then cleaned the burns and blisters on his arm. She had to be more gentle with this area, so the blisters wouldn’t burst. After cleaning and dressing the wounds, Jean took a couple pills from a tylenol bottle and handed them to him in a dosage cup.

“After you take that you should try to get some rest, and- uh, well, if you don’t have somewhere to go, stay here for a while. Y’know, so you have some help with those injuries.” The man nodded, but didn’t move to take the pills. Looking over her handiwork, Jean noticed the state of the man’s clothes. His blue coveralls were dirty with soot and blood, and they didn’t look very comfortable. 

“ I can wash your clothes for you tomorrow, if you want. I think I’ve got some clothes about your size that you can change into. The man set down the cup of pills, which Jean took to as a yes, so she went to the closet where she’d been keeping her grandpa’s clothes. The intruder looked to be a similar size as her grandpa, maybe a little taller and thinner, but it should be close enough. She brought the man a soft t-shirt and pajama bottoms, bid him goodnight, and walked upstairs. When she layed down, she realized that she and the man hadn’t exchanged names, but that, she supposed, could wait until morning.

Downstairs, the man sat on the couch in a stranger’s house, in a stranger’s clothes, with his mask pushed up to his lips. He took the medicine, thankful that they were in pill form, rather than in a syringe. He weighed the options at hand about his impromptu host. He could go upstairs and kill the woman in her sleep. What a waste that would be considering how useful she was to him, especially when the urge to kill had died down since the night before. So, as long as the woman would be of use to him, he would let her live.


	2. Don't Feed It, It Will Come Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School back in session where I am, so there might be a few breaks between chapters. They'll probably happen in October and December.  
Chapter Title from It Will Come Back by Hozier

When Jean got out of bed the next morning, she shuffled downstairs to check in on the masked man, only to find the living room empty. The idea that the previous night had been a bizarre dream crossed her mind, but was pushed away when she saw the discarded boiler suit. Then where was her unexpected house guest? She turned to look for the man, only to bump into a solid mass. Looking up she recognized the white mask.

“ Oh, sorry about that,” she said as she looked at him, “ you look better than you did last night.” Which was true. He wasn’t shaking anymore, nor was he as tense as he had been. “ I was going to get some breakfast, you’re welcome to join me.” He didn’t reply, obviously, but Jean was fine with that, he understood and would respond in his own way. Like now, he followed her into the kitchen for breakfast. 

Jean set a plate of eggs and toast at one end of the table, where the man was standing rather than sitting. He didn’t eat or even touch the plate, taking a moment to watch his host as she enjoyed her meal. When she finished, she pushed a notepad and pen towards him.

“Well, we didn’t exactly introduce ourselves last night, did we? I’m Jeanette Parish, but everyone calls me Jean. And you are?” She waited for his response calmly when he looked at the paper dumbly. He took the pen in his harsh grip, scribbling hastily. The note he pushed at her had only a single name, written in a child’s handwriting: _ Michael. _

“Alright, Michael,” she said as she left the room, “Put your dishes into the sink when you’re done, I’ll be able to do them later.” Jean collected the man’s garments off the living room floor, still fully aware of how absurd and strange these circumstances were. She washed the clothes before hanging them up, then she went to the kitchen to clean up.

Michael wasn’t in the kitchen when she got there, not that Jean really cared about where he was. That was, until, for the second time that day, she bumped into the man’s strong chest. She muttered an apology before walking past him. He watched the woman who’d welcomed him into her home as she flitted around the house, sweeping and adjusting small things. When she seemed satisfied, she checked the clock and went upstairs, saying something about a shift at the truck stop.

He was very curious about one thing: How unrepentently stupid was this woman? It didn’t seem to him that she’d put together anything about who he was or her situation. His name was on the radio for Pete's sake! At the time he was sure that she had asked for that exact reason, and that he would have to kill her right there and then. Well, he’d inevitably have to kill her at some point, but for now she was more useful to him alive than dead.

Jean came downstairs in her pink and white work uniform, and when he saw this his hand twitched like it would anytime he saw a beautiful woman. The urge to see the light dim from her eyes was growing stronger, but he could not act yet.

She didn’t say anything to him as she left, as she was to focused on the questions that swamped her brain, but it wasn’t like saying anything to him would have changed anything. It was only a short drive to the truck stop, around twenty minutes, but regardless it helped her to clear her head after her bizarre night before. Sure, she knew Michael’s name, but  _ who _ was he? Out of all the homes in the surrounding area, why’d he choose her house? Was he mute or did he just refuse to speak? Her train of thought was cut off by the familiar sight of the truck stop diner’s parking lot, where she parked carefully. Janice, Jean’s coworker, met her at the door beaming with the same positive energy she always had.

“Oh, hey there, Jean,” she said, bleach-blonde hair bouncing with every step she took, “we’re having a busy shift, so be prepared.” Jean rolled her eyes.

“You’re always so peppy, how do you even manage that?”

“Well, I look at it like this, when I get done with work, I get to go home and cuddle my wonderful fiance and how could I be in a bad mood? Maybe you could try that”

“Jan, I’m single, remember?”

“ _ Still? _ Didn’t you talk to that guy I set you up with? He’s very nice, y’know!” 

“I’m really sorry, Jan,” Jean said as she grabbed her tray, “ I’ve just been busy with fixin’ up the house is all.”

After the two worked through the onslaught of trucker’s early in their shift and there was no one in the diner, the women took their break.

“Y’know,” Jan began as she lit a cigarette, “If you got yourself a man, he’d be there to help you fix on that house.”

“I know, you’re not the first person to be telling me that.”

“Then what’re you waitin’ for?”

“It’s just- I don’t know, I don’t feel like I have time to date.”

“Well when will you-” A slamming door cut Jan off mid-thought. 

“Your break’s over, ladies,” Said Gus, the cook. 

Jan huffed, tossing her cigarette on the ground, and grinding the but under her heel as they reentered the building. When their shift ended, Jean made her way to her car, stuck in her mind. The stupidity of her actions regarding Michael were dawning on her. How in the hell did she come to the conclusion to welcome who had broken into her house? That probably wasn’t the only crime he had committed either, as she had a sneaking suspicion that not all the blood spatter on his coveralls was actually his.

Maybe she could go back into the diner and talk to Gus? He’d probably understand and offer to make sure that she got home safe, hell, he’d probably try to fight the guy, but she didn’t want Gus to get hurt, frankly she didn’t want anyone to get hurt because of this. She could go back into the diner and call the police and explain to them the situation, but how would that sound?  _ Hello, officer. The man who broke into my house last night is sitting on my couch. He threatened me with a knife, but I felt really bad for him so I let him stay. I’m starting to realize just how reckless this all is, though. _ Oh yeah, that would sound just  _ great- _

“Jean, wait up!” Jan called, derailing Jean’s train of thought, “Are you absolutely sure that you won’t have any time to go out with someone? Even as a friend?”

“Sorry, I already told you, that can’t happen anytime soon.”

“Ok, fine, but can you at least promise me that you’ll keep an open mind?”

“Jan-”

“ _ Please?  _ Like if a really nice, cute customer asks you out, or you meet someone by chance, don’t reject him immediately, at least consider it.”

“I don’t understand why you care so much about this.”

“I’m just trying to look out for you. I’d hate for you to be lonely.”

“Alright, I’ll keep an open mind, but you are aware that, just because I live alone, I’m not lonely, right?”

“Of course, but I’m still allowed to worry about you. Well, g’night, Jean!”

“Night.”

After driving about halfway home, Jean remembered that she hadn’t done anything about her situation and would have to deal with Michael when she got home. She’d have to call the cops somewhere private and then sneak out unnoticed until the cops arrived. That would have to do, she couldn’t think of any other options other than that.

When she got home, the lights were out. Her heart raced as she turned the doorknob. She felt around for the light switch, keeping her eyes screwed firmly shut in fear, only to see the empty living room. She checked the house room-by-room, but found no trace of the man. His suit was missing from the clothes line when she checked with her flashlight. 

A sigh of relief escaped her when she realized that Michael wasn't in her house, and maybe he never was. Maybe she had just been having a mental breakdown and hallucinated the whole thing. Well, with that over with, she could get on with her nightly routine.

Days passed with no sign of Michael, so Jean began to forget the strange and intimidating man who'd broke into her house. Her fear and paranoia melted into the calming monotony of her familiar daily life.

Late one evening, Jean and Jan walked out to their cars after their shift, the clack of their heels on asphalt echoing in the night air as they moved.

"So, how are you spending Thanksgiving?" Asked Jan as she stopped to unlock her car door.

"I don't know, haven't really given it any thought. Can't exactly visit my dad and the only friend I have here has plans to visit her husband's family, doesn't she?"

"Yeah, but that means that you have a chance to go out and have some fun."

"Sure, I guess, but that depends entirely on what sort of 'fun' we're talking about."

"Go shopping, feed the pigeons, get a drink at the bar, y'know, fun."

"Sounds absolutely  _ riveting _ ."

"Fine then, don't listen to me! It's not like I care or anything, but I guess you do have some time before you really need to solidify your plans."

"That's right, but thanks for thinking of me, night, Jan."

"You're welcome, enjoy your day off tomorrow."

Jean thought about Jan's questions as she drove home. What  _ was _ she going to do for Thanksgiving? Or Christmas, for that matter. Family wasn't really an option, as she had a good damn reason to cut her ties with them. Besides them, Jan was her only proper friend in Haddonfield, but she would be spending time with her loving husband and both of their families. Jean would most likely be home alone during the holidays, surrounded by reminders of the last person who seemed to love her, her grandpa. 

It felt like she'd gotten home late that evening, later than she had before, so Jean was so tired that she went straight to bed, not even stopping to get something quick to eat. Sleep was welcomed, restful, and completely dreamless. She was coaxed out of sleep, slowly at first, by the squeak of an opening window and a cool breeze. However, the gentle awakening was disrupted by a strong hand clamped down over her mouth. She thrashed around, fingers clawing at her captor's hand, and kicked at the figure until her foot connected, earning a deep grunt from the man. The impact caused the man to loosen his grip, allowing her to wiggle free and roll off of the side of the bed. She leapt to her feet, rushing to the door as the man grabbed her wrist in a bruising grip. He twisted her arm so that she faced him, making her realize who held her.

"What the  _ hell, _ Michael?" She breathed, to which he responded with only a head tilt.

"You can't do that!" She yelled, which amused Michael, he could do that and he  _ had,  _ "At least let me go," but he pretended not to hear her, keeping her wrist in his harsh grip.

"Please? Look I'm sorry for kicking you, but I really thought I was gonna get killed, or worse!"

_ Not yet _ , he thought as he let her wrist go. She rubbed at it, opened the door, and exited the room. She wouldn’t be able to sleep anymore tonight, not after she just had the life scared out of he. Michael followed her a good four or five steps behind, close enough to keep her within arm’s reach, but far enough away from her that she wouldn’t be able to land a hit if she spun around to defend herself. 

Jean went to the kitchen to make herself a sandwich when she remembered the meal she had skipped after she got home the night before. MIchael held back a bit further once they had entered the kitchen, allowing her more space to move. Despite her original intention of making a sandwich for only herself, hearing the dangerous man’s stomach growl made her feel a small amount of pity for him. She set a plate in front of him and left with her food, knowing full well that he would stare at her until she did so instead of just eating his own food. As she finished her sandwich, he entered the room. Now she could get a good look at him. Last time she’d seen him, he was hunched over in pain, which gave her the impression that he was shorter than he was, but now that he stood at his full height, she could see that he was at least a head taller than her, so about six foot tall. Blood was splattered on his clothes, but his body language gave her the idea that it wasn’t his.

“So,” she began, tossing a notepad and pen his way, “why are you here?”

_ I want to be here. _

“Fine, but don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

_ No. _

Well, this was wonderful, she’d never get anywhere trying to have him answer her. She sighed, giving up on that front. Sure he broke in,  _ twice _ now, but he hadn’t damaged anything or hurt her. Well tender, purple marks on her wrist beg to differ, but that was probably his idea of gentle. What time of night was it even? Two o’ clock, that made sense given how dark it was outside. No point in going back to bed.

She scooted far to one side of the couch, grabbed her sketchpad, and brought her knees up so she was curled up on the seat. Thumbing through the book, she found the page with the owl, then flipped past it to the next empty page. As she began to draw, Michael became curious, coming closer and closer until he stood directly behind her. He watched as she brought to life a scene of a bird in flight, a great dark owl, with a small and helpless creature in its talons. How ironic that a destructive force such as himself would be so interested in a creative act. The way that each line came together was mesmerizing to him. However, the prickling at the back of Jean’s neck caused her to stop drawing. His creeping presence was far too much for her to bear. He looked at her expectantly, her drawing was very entertaining, so why had she stopped?

“If you’re gonna watch me draw, that’s alright, but could you just come sit on the other end of the couch? It makes me nervous to have you stand behind me like that,” she said. The words hung in the air for a moment he moved around the couch, his weight shifting Jean’s balance when he lowered himself onto the cushions. Much to his pleasure, she resumed drawing and didn’t quit when Michael watched.  _ Maybe she could be spared a little longer. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is appreciated!


	3. So Have You Got The Guts?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, school's already kicking my ass and I might not be able to update every week. That made me wonder: Would you prefer shorter weekly chapters or longer chapters every other week?  
Anyway, warning: Michael still doesn't care for dogs, so sorry about that.
> 
> Chapter title from Do I Wanna Know by The Arctic Monkeys

Rays of early morning light beamed through the windows as Jean and Michael sat in each other's company. When Jean realized that morning had come, she ceased drawing, much to Michael’s displeasure. She walked to the kitchen with Michael at her heels, turned on the radio, and set off making then both some food. Jean shoveled eggs into her mouth in an attempt to leave the kitchen as quickly as she could. Being social on a day she was working was one thing, but even being around a person on her day off? It was tiring, absolutely exhausting. She savored the solitude she had while she tidied up the house with only her thoughts as company. This was, unfortunately, cut short by Michael’s presence. Inwardly, she sighed, but outwardly her expression remained unchanged and stone cold. How he could breathe so loudly and still enter the room without her truly noticing was beyond her.

Despite what Jean might have thought, Michael  _ never  _ just watched. He observed and took note of the small details in a person’s behavior. For example, he noticed that, while she was most definitely aware of his arrival in the room, she ignored him. To him, this seemed foolish. He could just grab her and snap her neck, so why didn’t she realize that she was living on  _ his  _ terms. Not that it mattered, but Michael took pride in his ability to predict a person’s actions, so the unreasonable nearly neutral kindness this woman was showing him was intriguing. She obviously knew that he was a threat, given how she had fought back earlier, and yet she also treated him a form of cold kindness. In a way, she reminded him of the nicer nurses at Smith’s Grove, but with an added edge. 

While he was lost in thought, she had been growing irritated with his staring. His unchanging gaze made her want to scream, maybe even lash out at him, even though it would certainly end with her being seriously injured, maybe even killed. The way the eye-holes of his mask cast a dark shadow on his eyes made her breath shallow and palms sweaty. It felt like he was just standing there, putting her under constant scrutiny. When she couldn’t take it anymore she scrambled up the stairs to the bathroom, locking the door behind her. Calm washed over her as he washed her face. She knew that if she left the room, Michael would be waiting for her. He would be waiting for her with his blank eyes and expressionless face, just staring and judging. It was like living with her father again.

Just as Jean thought, Michael was standing in the hallway. Despite being so sure of it, it still startled her. Upon looking at him, she noticed that he had willingly changed into jeans and a T-shirt. He surprisingly didn’t follow her down the stairs, which was fine by her. Even as she did laundry, she was alone. She didn’t consider the whereabouts of Michael to be any of her business, but when he hadn’t appeared behind her as she finished making dinner, she became suspicious. Her first thought was that he’d left again, but, upon looking, she realized that his coveralls were still out back. The last time he left, he made sure to grab his suit, so he was probably somewhere nearby.

She ate dinner while listening to the radio. More murders had occurred in the past week and they were assumed to be connected to the thirteen that happened on Halloween. Apparently, the police were getting nowhere and would be broadening their search all of Haddonfield, as well as the surrounding area. She finished her meal, setting aside a portion for Michael in the fridge, and went upstairs. She showered, letting the wonderfully warm water wash over her. It chased away the tension of the day from her muscles, not all of it, but most. Slipping into her soft, blue pajamas, she stumbled to her bedroom, getting a few feet from the bed when she noticed something off. Something white was on her nightstand, shining in the moonlight. Her eyes went wide when she realized that it was the deflated mask that Michael wore as a second face. Then she saw the owner of the creepy piece of latex laying on her bed. There he was, deadly silent and stiff as a board, with his back turned to her.

She felt her hand drifting toward his dark curly locks, but willed herself to stop. Not knowing what to do, she crept out of the room as quietly as she could, making sure to skip the squeaky step on the stairs so Michael wouldn’t wake up. She’d be taking the couch tonight, but she feared that, if this kept up, she wouldn’t be surviving this living situation. 

For the second time that week, Jean awoke to Michael standing over her. Unlike the previous morning, he didn’t make a move to touch her, but he did have his head tilted to the side. Slowly, cautiously, she sat up. He didn’t move to let her have any room, so she came very nearly face to mask. Too close. For the first time, she saw a real human quality to his face. Behind the mask she could see pale skin and dark eyes. Near black and glossy, like melted dark chocolate. Her pulse quickened under the intensity of his gaze.

“Uh, morning,” she said as she stood, maneuvering so she wouldn’t bump into him. Thankfully, he continued to stand where he’d been after she changed her clothes. The two ate breakfast, separately of course, and Jean dashed around the house, putting everything in its place. Then, just like that first day a week ago, she got dressed in her uniform, the one that made Michael feel the urge to take her life, then left. Now that he was alone, he took his time to wander around her house. It was well lived in, with family photos on the walls and the occasional creaky floorboard. The air smelled of dust and laundry soap, which he thought was much better than the disinfectant odor and white sterility of the sanitarium. It had the things that were missing from his house on Lampkin Lane now: Warmth, decent food, small comforts really, but desirable all the same. Most importantly, it was somewhere to return to when the urges had been fulfilled. While browsing the overstuffed bookshelves, Michael considered that maybe this place was, in fact, luxurious. No, it wasn’t the soft bed that made it that way. It wasn’t the plentiful hiding spaces or the surrounding woods, either. Actually it was Jean. He didn’t really care about her, but he did prefer to keep her breathing to the alternative. The food she prepared was better than what he’d been eating for the past fifteen years and watching her was decently entertaining, but she was also predictable, making his life much simpler. He’d watched her long enough to know that she would come back after dark, make dinner, and go to sleep. Then, when she followed that procedure that night, he was satisfied.

In the coming few days, Jean and Michael began to settle into their roles. Settled, however, didn't mean comfortable. Jean's pulse still quickened every time she felt his eyes on her. Doubly so when she continued to find him in her bed, so, to hopefully prevent this, she cleaned out the guest bedroom for him. Very little was needed to convert it for Michael and it seemed to remedy the issue quite well. Even her conversations with Jan had become a routine and, surprisingly, had nothing to do with Jean's love life or lack thereof. As if to further cement their roles, Michael even gave her some space while she was home. While it seemed at first glance to be a show of trust, she knew that he'd likely gotten bored with her.

One morning, as she entered the kitchen for breakfast, Jean noticed an absence. Generally, even if he weren't around her for long, she would find some sign of Michael. Often, it would just be a glimpse of vibrant white out of the corner of her eye, but not today. There was absolutely nothing. Odd, but not really a problem, in fact, it was nice to get stuff done without being watched.

When she got to work that day, Jean had a new pep in her step. It was easy to forget how tiring it was to be under constant scrutiny, so the solitude she enjoyed that morning was reinvigorating.

"You're in a good mood," Jan told her during their break, smile on her lips.

"I guess you could say that."

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Are you gonna tell me about it?"

"Am I not allowed to be happy?"

"That's not it, you just seemed tense all week."

"Alright. I've, uh, I've been helping a friend. He needed somewhere to crash, but he's a horrible housemate."

"Do go on."

"He's been out of the house today, so I can have some me time."

"That's it?" Jan asked in disbelief.

"Yeah?"

"I thought, like, you'd gotten lucky."

"Wha-" 

"Y'know, the horizontal tango?"

"Geez, Jan," Jean said, hiding her face.

"What? Don't be such a prude! There's nothing wrong with satisfying that urge every now and then," she said devilish grin on her lips.

"I know  _ that _ , but-"

"Oh, damn, you're a  _ virgin _ , aren't you? I honestly thought someone as cute as you'd be-" 

"I'm not a virgin! Christ, that's not the point anyway. I'm just glad that I had some time alone."

"Fine," Jan huffed, putting out her cigarette, "but with how snappy you are, you might wanna consider what i said before." The door slammed, leaving a visibly flustered Jean standing alone. Jean groaned, cursing herself internally for her embarrassment. Jan's choice of topic wasn't something she was very comfortable with, but whatever. She had to get back to work anyway.

When she got back into the diner, she walked over to two customers so she could take their orders. The duo a pair of not-quite-elderly middle aged men with dark greying hair, sat comfortably in a booth by the window. As she got to them, she heard some of their conversation.

"Fuckin' sick is what it is," said the first man, well groomed mustache framing his mouth.

“What’d you expect? Some nut escapes the loony bin and volunteers at the old folks’ home?” The heavier man asked as he turned to Jean.

“What’ll you be having, gentlemen?” She asked in her rehearsed, sickeningly sweet service voice. 

“Tenderloin sandwich, apple pie, and a black coffee,” said the heavy man, “you, bud?”

“Cheesecake and black coffee,” said the other man. Jean continued to listen in to their conversation as she walked away, then handed the order to Gus. 

“I’m just pissed that the cops can’t catch the bastard,” said the mustached man.

“I get it. He’s, what, 20 bodies in now? Seriously couldn’t tell you what our tax dollars are being used for when psychos like that can just have free run of the place.”

“Well, I did hear that they’re broadening their search after hearing that he’s been spotted around some houses not far from here, but that could have just been some kid in a mask, y’know?”

“After Halloween?”

“Oh, come on, you know how kids nowadays are with- Oh, thanks, doll,” he said as Jean served him,”How’s that cheesecake, bud?”

“Great, that sandwich?”

“Damn good. Anyway, you know how kids are with their screwin’ around and pranking people. Besides, dime-store mask and coveralls? Anyone can wear that.” Jean perked up at that. The description of the murderer sounded very familiar, but she didn’t want to jump to that yet.

“Wait, wasn’t that what happened to that Tramer kid? Police thought he was Michael Myers and he got run over? Well,  _ on accident _ , of course.” “Yeah, damn shame too. He was the star player on the football team, right? Might as well add him to the body count.” 

If she hadn’t been so focused on wiping down the empty tables, Jean might’ve gotten sick. Her head swam with all the connections between what the men were saying and what she knew about Michael. White mask? Coveralls? Yes to both. The timing? It had been two days since the massacre when she’d met him. Hell, she’d seen him covered in blood three times since she first met him. Her legs felt weak as she came to the only logical conclusion. Her unwelcome house guest was a serial killer, and she had been too stupid to put two and two together. The customers turned to look at her, eyebrows furrowed in concern.

“Hey,” the heavy man said, “Y’alright? You look ready to pass out over there. “

“Oh, yeah, I’m ok, just a bit of low blood sugar is all, I’ll be fine in a moment,” she lied.

“Ok, I was worried that all this murder-talk was going to kill you,” he laughed. Her only response was a weak smile. The men chatted for a little longer before paying and leaving the diner. She collected the tip, a reasonable amount, and finished the cleanup. After she clocked out, she met Jan by the exit, their heels clacking on the pavement as they made their way across the parking lot. Even though the sick feeling had left, the echo of her footsteps stirred up the dormant paranoia that had settled within Jean. A tap on her shoulder made her jump, sucking in a breath.

“Woah, chill,” Jan said, walking in front of Jean and turning to face her, “you’ve looked really tense all evening.”

“ _ Thanks, _ ” Jean replied, rolling her eyes, “My blood sugar just dropped earlier, so I got a little woozy for a moment.”

“You sure you’ll be ok?”

“Of course,” Jean said, getting into her car, “night, Jan.”

Tension built in Jean’s entire body as she drew closer to home. Even with all of her suspicions about Michael, something about truly  _ knowing _ he was a murderer was entirely different, but why? In the past few days, he hadn’t been threatening her, hadn’t even really bothered her, but that didn’t force down the stiffness in her shoulders. By the time she had pulled into her driveway, she had a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel. Getting out of the car, she began taking hesitant steps toward the door. As her shaking hands fiddled with the key, she tried to calm her nerves with the reminder of Michael’s absence that morning, but it did nothing for her once she opened the door, getting hit with a wall of suffocating copper scent. She flicked on the light and, upon observing the scene before her, took a step back. The eviscerated remains of a dog lay on the wood floor, blood pooling around its open mouth. Rusty red streaks decorated the floor, walls, and even stained the beige couch. The bloody smears trailed up the stairs, leading her eyes to the semi-open door of her bedroom. 

It was a horrible idea, she knew that, but something within possessed Jean to follow the patches of slick, half wet blood to their conclusion, to follow them like a lamb to the slaughter. It was only when she found herself a step before the threshold that she felt the painful twisting in her stomach, the inner prey that told her to run, told her to get away from the predator’s den, yet her overly curious human mind won out, forcing her clammy hands to further open the door. Dark pools led to her bed, where the predator, still messy from the hunt, lay stick-straight under the soft covers. Something about the scene made her snap, maybe it was the fact that he looked almost peaceful after leaving a horrifically bloody mess downstairs or the fact that he was making a mess of  _ her _ bed even though he had his own. Anger bubbled to the back of her throat and fearful tremors gave way to quaking fists as she forcefully flipped the lightswitch. Michael bolted upright in his bed like Dracula in his coffin, grasping frantically at his mask and trying to put it on, looking very much like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. 

“I can’t believe you!” she seethed, stepping closer to him as he stood up from the bed, “you leave without so much as a note, then I come home to a dead dog in my living room and you making a mess of the bed? It’s not even your bed!” She gestured at the bloody sheets, “I didn’t even invite you to stay, but I let you. All I ask is that you clean up your messes, but  _ no _ , I’ve got to come home to a bloody mess in my living room and a guy who smells like death in my bed!” Michael stepped a mere three steps until they were less than a foot apart, but Jean didn’t flinch.

“You’ve got three options,” she said, glaring up at him, “leave my house, follow  _ my _ rules, or kill me.” Michael’s hand rose up to her neck, long fingers fitting themselves around it. He didn’t squeeze her throat, just held her there, looking for a change of expression, fear, submission, something, but was only answered with a toothy grimace. Fear was common in victims, expected even, but anger? No, that was reserved for the exceptionally stupid, but Michael was beginning to feel that this one was not stupid, exceptionally or otherwise. The anger in her slate-grey eyes was new, intriguing. With a huff, he let her go, marveling at the bloody hand-print he left on her neck as she turned from him and left down the stairs. 

_ That one, _ Michael’s mind whispered to him,  _ watch her.  _ He agreed to its request, he would definitely watch her.


	4. Something Beautiful, Something Free

The better part of an hour was spent in a desperate attempt at removing the bloodstains from the house. Any help volunteered by Michael was lackluster at best and a hindrance at it’s very worst, given the slimy red trails he left in his wake. He did, however, solve the largest problem: removing the carcass lying in the living room. Though Jean could have gotten rid of it herself, she appreciated that he took care of it. It allowed her the chance to access the damage and decide what could be salvaged and what should be pitched into the garbage at the first available moment. The majority of the stains could be solved easily. Linens could be soaked in cold water, sprinkled in baking soda, and thrown in the wash, no problem. The couch would be another beast to its own. If she were lucky, there would be some suspicious brown stains that couldn’t be removed by mortal hands, but if she were unlucky, well, Michael had better hope that that wouldn’t be the case. Thankfully, most of the evidence was gone, leaving only a few mysterious stains that weren’t visible to anyone else. When her work was done, fatigue set in like a pack of wolves, eating away at her energy until nothing remained of her adrenaline high. She lugged her tired body away to the shower, let the steamy water flow over her tired body, and flopped into the clean blankets of her bed. Her next mission was to get some rest, yet sleep wouldn’t come. Even with exhaustion gnawing at the focus of her mind, hours passed before darkness would take her. Her last thoughts were of the dangerous man that was still lying in wait in her house, then, and only then, she slipped into peaceful slumber.

A shadowy presence slipped into the dark room, looming over her sleeping body. The silhouette dank in every inch of her physique. He observed that the tension of her waking life gripped her, even under the plush warmth of a comforter, the steady rise and fall of her chest, and the honey-dark locks that framed her face. His usual seething anger refused to grip his mind in its fiery claws. If only it could, then taking her life would be as easy as crushing a bug. A simple movement would end this whole thing, and yet- what was this feeling? It was strange and scary-  _ No, not scary, never scary.  _ Michael was a being of pure hatred and bloodlust, that’s what Dr. Loomis told him, he couldn’t feel fear. Somehow, this wasn’t hate. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t even malicious. It was a bizzare near-fondness that he’d once felt for someone, back in the days before Smith’s Grove. Before that night of red. His hand clenched around an invisible knife. He hated this entire game he’d started.  _ Something is wrong with me _ , he told The Shape, that voice in his head, but silence was its reply. That brought it back: hatred wrapped its arms around him, encasing him in the painful burn. The familiarity of this sensation was his drug and, looking down at Jean, he realized how pleasurable that unknown feeling was. He did not want to experience it again. 

Jean awoke slowly, rays of sun washing over her eyes. When she could finally keep her eyes open, she realized that the bedroom door was ajar and had been since the night before. Given the manner that she had reacted before, it was a wonder that she was still alive to see morning, not that the door would protect her from Michael, but it might have given her some time to escape. There wasn’t a huge steak knife stuck between her ribs, so there was no reason for her to worry about that now. Minimal staining was left in the place of the blood from the night before, visible only to the person who’d cleaned them. Still, she stared at the discoloration on the walls as they taunted her. If she invited someone over, perhaps Jan, she might need to provide an explanation for the suspicious splotches.  _ Inviting someone over to the house would probably prove fatal,  _ she thought _ , either for me, them, or both. _

The creaking of floorboards broke her out of her morbid train of thought as she, rather sharply, whipped around to see Michael watching her from the kitchen threshold, his beloved knife firmly in his grasp. Slowly and calmly, she closed the distance between them.  _ Bold move for a woman in stabbing range,  _ her mind unhelpfully supplied.

“Good morning, Michael,” she began, running a hand through her hair as she spoke, “I wanted to thank you for your assistance last night, especially when I had been so hostile toward you. Sorry about that, it was uncalled for.”  _ That’s right,  _ her mind cried in frustration, _ apologize to the murderer who wrecked your house in the first place!  _ Instead, the emotional part of her brain won out, ignoring the pleas coming from the more logical part of her mind. 

If Michael had actually heard her words, he actively ignored them as the only movement he made was a step backward to allow her access to the kitchen. Breakfast slipped back into its routine of a shared, but seperate, meal without a single hitch. As Jean finished cleanup after the meal, she flitted around the room, taking note of what she was running low on. With the grocery list compiled, and longer than usual, she stood before the door, slipping on a light jacket.

“I’m running a few errands! I’ll be back in a couple hours,” she called out to Michael, only hoping he would listen. Instead, as soon as she closed the door, Michael made his way into the room, staring at the closed front door. The idea of waiting at the house for her to return was bothersome, so, with nothing better to do, he slipped quietly out the back door and began his trek toward town. Perhaps traveling in broad daylight as a wanted criminal wasn’t the smartest of decisions, however, it was something he’d considered as soon as the news reports began. His favored outfit remained at the house, even his “face.” His hair had become shaggy and the beginnings of a scruffy brown beard had come in, which helped to differentiate his appearance from what the news described. Furthermore, he was clad in jeans and a green flannel shirt, which would further allow him to blend into the crowd.

Even in public, whilst going about a task as mundane as grocery shopping, Jean felt the unmistakable sensation of eyes boring into her flesh. All of her attempts to spot the familiar white rubber face in the crowd were fruitless. All she could see, aside from her fellow shoppers, wee aisle upon aisle of product closing around her. The uncertainty she felt made her sick to her stomach. When she made her way up to the checkout line, she felt herself collide with a solid mass. She’d bumped into someone or, more accurately, someone had bumped into her. The man produced a soft grunt at the impact. He was a rather tall, dark-haired man, and somehow very familiar.

“Shoot! Sorry about that I was-” she was cut off by reality crashing into her like a mac truck, forcing her breath from her lungs with a gasp. The inky black eyes and her grandfather’s shirt, name patch included, told her exactly who this was. “Micheal?,” She hissed under her breath. His eyes widened slightly, telling her that he was  _ surprised _ that she’d noticed him, as if she wouldn’t recognise the outfit she’d lent him. “You can  _ not _ be here!” she whispered at him. However, his silence told her everything she would know.

She pinched the bridge of her nose, reminding herself that this was her fault in the first place, “Look, meet me at the car, alright?” She silently prayed that he would listen for once. As her groceries were rung up, the cashier gave her a concerned look, confirming how bad the situation looked to an outside eye. Her prayers appeared to be answered, Michael stood stiffly beneath the tree she’s parked next too. He waited patiently as she stowed the groceries in the trunk of the car wordlessly, then slammed it shut, facing him.

“What are you trying to do? Get arrested?” His stalking her was to be expected, but there was no way that he could possibly be this stupid. She noticed that he no longer stared at her, opting instead to bow his head and tilt it to the left slightly. An outsider might have watched the exchange and seen a submissive man during a lover’s quarrel, but Jean knew better that this was a warning. She caught on quickly that having his face bare was a great irritation. She got in the driver’s seat, gesturing for Michael to sit in the passenger seat, “Are you going to get in, or do you want to walk back to the house?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so very much for your kind and suppotive comments!! I'm very sorry for taking so long to update this fic again. I was having a rough few months with a death anniversary, school, and a generally rough time with my mental health. I don't have much to say for myself aside from promising that I will keep updating this story, however I can't grantee that it will be super regular.


	5. When You Think You're Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, I'm back again! I have nothing really to say for myself as an excuse anymore, I'm just bad at finding the motivation to write. I am taking requests (for art and writing) on my tumblr if anyone's interested. My url is gophergal.   
Anyway, I want to thank everyone who leaves nice comments on any of my fics, y'all bring me so much joy and motivation to write.

Silence filled the car as Jean drove, eyes locked onto the road before her in an attempt to avoid Michael’s piercing gaze. As the silence stretched, she became increasingly paranoid about the inevitable elastic snap of the tension in the air until she finally broke.

“Look, Michael,” she began, loosening her white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel slightly, “I know that nothing I say or do can keep you from following me, and frankly I just don’t care if you do.” She trailed off, wetting her lips as she worked to compose her thoughts into something coherent. “I don’t want you to get arrested for what you’ve done,” she sighed, watching as Michael stiffened in her peripheral vision. “Yes, I know who you are- what you’ve done, Michael. I’m stupid, very stupid, but I’m no fool. I watch the news, you know.” At this, he relaxed a bit, enough to signal that she could keep talking.

“I know full well that you should be arrested- Hell, I know that I should want that to happen, but I just… don’t.” The heat of shame flared through her veins as she spoke, reaching her skin. It wasn’t for the words she said, though she certainly should question her morals by now. No, this shame was for admitting it to Michael. It was akin to asking your crush to the dance, though now the fear of rejection was tinged with concern for her own life. She knew that he likely only saw her as a provider of food and shelter, maybe even some easy entertainment if his trip to town told her anything. Yet, Michael sat unphased, waiting for her to continue, as it was obvious that this hadn’t been the only thing she’d needed to say.

“S-so, you need to be careful,” she said. She resented the stutter, the patheticness in her own voice. Where was that fire and anger that consumed her the other night? At least she had sounded strong and sure of herself, even if he had threatened her life. “You shouldn’t bring bodies home- to my home, that is. You can’t kill the neighbors either, ok? The cops would be on you like ticks on a dog.”  _ And if he did, what would you do?  _ Nothing. She knew that nothing she could do would convince him, but maybe the threat of arrest would be a good enough deterrent. If it weren’t, she’d be in trouble too. Harboring a fugitive is a crime, after all. His continued attention gave her some hope that he considered her words worth listening to.

Michael jumped out of the car as it pulled into the driveway, not even waiting for Jean to park it. He didn’t reappear until after the groceries had been put away, at which point he took a seat, remasked, in his usual spot at the dining table. She pushed a sandwich on a plate toward him, then turned to make her own. Her actions were halted by the sharp clink of a pen on glass. Michael had taken the initiative on communication this time, pen and pad readied in his hands as he scribbled something down.

_ Will you be home tonight? _

“Well, yeah, it’s my day off,” she answered, biting into her sandwich. “Since we’re asking questions, I have one of my own: Why were you following me? I know that I can’t do anything to stop you, but I want to know why.”

Both parties remained silent, the conversation coming to a standstill like a game of chess. Someone was in check and the next move would determine if their game would continue or the board would be flipped in rage and frustration. Unexpectedly, Michael stood up moving the table as he did so and leaving Jean in the empty kitchen with her thoughts. Concern washed over her, turning into waves of dread. Something was horribly off. In the brief time she had known him, Michael didn’t seem the type to flee without reason. He had something in mind, something that would end with her butchered like those girls he’d killed in the weeks prior. The sandwich in her hand had lost all appeal as that sick feeling clenched at her gut and she regretted once again her decisions up to that moment. 

One of the things that the Doctor had grown to believe was that he was unthinking, but that was far from true.. No one was entitled to Michael’s thoughts. He’d learned when he was young that they would only be used against him, to make him hurt. He lived by this truth, hiding behind the many masks in his life while reading what others lay bare around him. This time, however, as he sat on the guest bed he’d claimed and chewed bite after bite of sandwich, he considered what the answer would have been. Why had he followed her? He had wanted to, of course. Why else would he have done it? This wasn’t a satisfying answer for him and wracking his brain left him empty handed, so he posed the question to the Shape. It had been the one to give him the order, after all, but it remained silent. The low buzz in his ears continued to grow, threatening to change his plans for the night. A hunt any other night was welcomed, as was the blood that flowed in and around him as adrenaline and contentment flooded his body. Tonight her words stuck in his mind. She hadn’t wanted him arrested. She hadn’t wanted him left to rot in a cell until the end of his days. He certainly wasn’t complaining about this, but it was something else about her that he deemed a curiosity to observe.

With her in mind, he stalked through the house, footsteps silent as he looked for her. The house itself was devoid of her presence, though the dishes left in the drying rack and car in the driveway told him she wasn’t far away. He went to the back yard, disappearing between the bed sheets hung on the line. When he finally spotted her, she was tucked away a few yards from the tree line, sketchbook perched in her lap as she scribbled, looking back to the trees occasionally. Michael shifted his weight, rapidly becoming antsy and curious. He was much too far away to see what she kept turning back to, much less the paper she had in her hands. Mindful of the crisp leaves under his boots, he approached. As the distance between them shrank, he could begin to make out what she was seeing in the trees. There was an owl, much like the one she’d been sketching before, preening its rich brown feathers proudly. Before Jean had a chance to process the quickly approaching crunch of leaves underfoot behind her, her muse flew from its perch, startling her, when her fright was compounded by the solid presence behind her.

“Oh, Michael, it’s you,” she said with a small chuckle and an avoidant glance. Her refusal to look at him gnawed at his irritation. “Did you need something?” He tilted his head in the direction of the sketchbook where it had been tossed to the ground. “What was I drawing? There’s this owl that comes by every so often. He is absolutely gorgeous, but so easily spooked. The first few times that I saw him, I scared him off. Kinda like you did just now,” she toed the ground awkwardly. “Did you want to see it?” she asked, taking his lack of change as an answer. She held the book up to him in a silent invitation, which he accepted. He thumbed through the pages, catching sight of the drawings. The owl was there, but so were other creatures, plants and buildings too. They were good, very real looking. They reminded him of the picture books that the nicer nurses would sometimes let him have when the Doctor was more docile. That brought back that feeling from before, except now, despite being no closer to understanding it, Michael found that he didn’t mind it so much.


End file.
